Shatter
by Shattered MoonFox
Summary: England & America. No Pairing. It was amazing how much things fall apart. A quiet night of companionship would one day be a moment across the battlefield.


**Shatter**

~~~~~ (1647) ~~~~~

He was asleep.

A smile slipped across Arthur's lips as he knelt beside the bed, watching the young boy deep in slumber. He raised a hand and carefully pushed away the bright golden locks from the boy's face, chuckling softly when the child scrunched his face up, breathed a light puff of air, and relaxed, snuggling into the pillow.

"So small," Arthur murmured, withdrawing his hand from Alfred's hair.

The child was tiny. It was near-impossible to believe that Arthur, himself, had ever been so small. But, aye, once he was. Although, never as innocent. Not even close to this pureness.

Always running from those that sought to control him, Arthur's childhood was that of prey. He had never known a moment of peace. Every waking day, he was filled with fear so thorough that he wanted to succumb to the inevitable and shatter. But Alfred would be spared of that.

"Nay, not you. I shall protect you, lad," Arthur whispered, green eyes flashing with the determination to ensure that.

He carefully smoothed out the covers, tucking the child in. Leaning down, he brushed his lips against the boy's forehead.

"Sleep well, lad."

Getting to his feet, Arthur silently left the room, leaving the door ajar. He had hoped that he would not arrive as late as he did, if only to spend more time with Alfred before the true darkness of night fell. Alas, one cannot control the sea. Merely, one must respond to her and place all effort into surviving.

"It was not meant to be," Arthur breathed, running a hand through his windblown, pale blond hair.

A strong sense of belief into destiny ruled his thoughts, accepting that things would always happen for a higher purpose.

Once in the sanctuary of the seating room, he grabbed the matches from the table and lit a candle. The room was bathed in a warm glow.

Reaching down to take hold of the candle stand, Arthur caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and started, his hand frozen. He looked happy.

As a child, his eyes had held a controlled fear, darting to glance about as if something would attack him at any moment. He lived as the hunted would, always alert. Once older, he gained power and understanding. He knew how to survive. His eyes glinted like those of a predator, daring someone to take a shot at him, knowing they would fail. Now, however, he saw something he had never seen before, not on him. The green depths held a warmness that softened the tension of life from his face. For once in his life, he was open. He was happy.

Shaking his head, he gave a tiny smile and grabbed the candle stand. The flame jolted, casting intriguing shadows about the room. Arthur set the candle on the side table next to a cushioned chair. Settling himself down, it took only moments to find him immersed in a book.

"Arthur?"

The man blinked, looking up at the sleep-stained voice.

"Alfred, you shouldn't be up," Arthur pointed out, though he set his book aside.

Alfred ran up to him, hands placed on his knees. He was immediately scooped up and placed gently on the Englishman's lap. Bright blue eyes, full of innocent excitement, stared up at Arthur.

A sigh escaped Arthur, although his lips quirked up into a small smile. "You are a troublesome lad," he told him, ruffling up the golden hair.

Despite the apparent "trouble" Alfred was causing him, he agreed to read the boy another chapter of _King Arthur_ before bed.

It was a calm moment; an escape from the tiresome follies of Europe. These were tunes that Arthur lived for, where his stresses evaporated and he became genuinely relaxed. They were few and far between. He was required to be in England most of his time.

~~~~~ (1763) ~~~~~

"What is this, Arthur?"

He flinched back at the anger in the lad's voice.

"Alfred, you know–"

"I know what?" the golden haired boy – teen – snarled, thrusting his face into Arthur's. His blue eyes burned with anger. "All I know is that I can do nothing! Nothing at all!"

Biting his lip, Arthur fisted his hands. "You will follow your King," he hissed, turning away. A shiver ran through him ad his eyes stung with tears he wouldn't allow to fall. "And you will listen to me." His voice was barely a whisper.

Without looking back, Arthur left the seating room. He entered his bedroom, locking the door with a trembling hand.

He fell to his knees, head bowed.

A century guaranteed a lot of change. The boy who looked up to him was now a young man who looked down on him, not only due to the greater height.

A lifetime of royal tyranny was taking a toll. Alfred entertained thoughts of independence, but Arthur didn't want to let go. The boy meant to much to him. And his King had forbidden the loss of America; the loss of income.

"Why is this happening?"

~~~~~ (1773) ~~~~~

Green eyes were wide with shock, staring at the sinking leaves and crates. Shouts of outrage clashed with hoots of laughter and victory.

Spinning on his heel, Arthur walked to Alfred's home. His eyes flashed with fury as he slammed the door open, catching sight of his charge frozen in slight fear, dressed as an Indian.

"What," he hissed, "is the meaning of this, boy?" The door fell shut with a loud sound. His fisted hands shook with rage.

Alfred shrugged, relaxing into a cocky calmness. He flashed a bored look over at his mentor. "Maybe you should have listened to me, Artie," he drawled.

Arthur trembled. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his ire. "You insolent twit," he spat. "How dare you speak to me that way? You should know your place! Smarten up!"

With his eyes shut, he held a complete lack of warning. Pain exploded through his head and he saw stars. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet, falling backwards. Through stabbing pain, he opened his eyes at Alfred in shock, his hand cradling the left side of his face.

"A-Alfred," he gasped, a hitch in his voice.

Alfred stared down at him, mouth open but making no sound. His eyes were wide in shock. He shook weakly, looking as if he would burst into tears at any second.

He turned and fled, leaving Arthur sitting on the floor.

~~~~~ (1776) ~~~~~

Striding down a hall in the parliament building, Arthur spotted a man decked in sea garb hurrying by him. He blinked, reaching a hand out to halt him.

"Why the rush, mate?" Arthur asked, feeling a certain kinship to this sea-born man pulled into stately affairs. He smiled through his weariness and stress. "What news?"

The sailor-turned-politician motioned to the sealed envelope in his hand, casting a troubled look down the hall around Arthur. "From the Thirteen Colonies. 'Tis ill," he murmured.

Arthur gave the document a wondering glance, feeling a sense of foreboding. If the news was indeed poor, it made sense that the man was reluctant to move forward. King George the III was not one to take ill news well. Thus, messengers held a certain fear.

He smiled. "Return to the sea, mate. I shall present this to His Excellency in your stead," he promised, carefully taking the envelope into his own hands.

Gratitude flooded the man's eyes, the unease washing from his posture and his face. "A thousand thanks, my Lord." He turned and left, returning to his ship and away from the King's imminent rage.

Arthur was unprepared for the brunt of King George's fury. Already a foul man who muddled up the country's affairs, his temper was harsh and sudden.

Flinching slightly when the message was flung at his face, Arthur forced is expression unchanged as the paper smacked into his cheek. He did not show a reaction when his King stormed passed him, spouting nonsense as well as "I shan't allow it!"

Once alone in the Throne room, Arthur stopped and plucked the parchment from the floor. Dusting it off, he moved to the side of the room near the armless chairs placed for the nobility.

Scanning the message, his green eyes widened and he collapse into a chair weakly. He stared at the message, hands trembling as they held the paper. He frantically kept reading it over and over, disbelief filling him. Nothing else in the world left an imprint on his mind, too absorbed.

"God, no," he breathed, tears stinging his eyes. His shoulders shook and he bowed his head, tears running down his cheeks. They landed on the message, leaving smeared inky trails in their wake. His eyes couldn't lift from the word _independence._

~~~~~ (1783) ~~~~~

"Francis, why have you involved yourself?" Arthur screamed, rain pelting his body, flattening his hair and soaking through his red uniform. His hands clenched around his bayonet, facing the Frenchman with fury burning in his eyes.

Francis's sharp laugh was harsh as he sneered at his rival. "I did not, _mon ami_. Your _**precious**_ Alfred did."

"Francis, quit!"

Arthur's eyes widened at the voice, attempting to peer passed Francis into the murk of the field. His hands trembled at the sight of his lad, clothed in a war-dirtied blue uniform and clutching a bayonet confidently. Alfred appeared exactly the way he wished. Strong…and independent. His eyes bore no hesitation as he stared at Arthur calmly.

The boy – no, he was a young man, now – set his hand on the Frenchman's shoulder, his grip firm. "We had words about this," he told Francis. "This is my battle."

A chuckle slipped free from the Frenchman. "So it is," he murmured, eyes calculation. With a sharp grin, he gave a slight mocking bow. His eyes glittered with amusement. "As you wish, _**America**_. I will take my leave." He turned and waved a hand over his shoulder. "_Adieu._"

Arthur watched Francis pass through the small line of American Revolutionaries. Once he completely lost sight of his long-time rival, he glanced over at Alfred only to notice the man watching him. The Englishman clenched the barrel of his bayonet tighter, tensing as he faced his charge.

"Alfred…"

"Save it!" Alfred snapped.

Arthur's voice caught in his throat.

The American leveled his bayonet at his colonizer, blue eyes calm as he aimed for his chest.

"Hey, England!" he called, reverting to Arthur's title. This was formal. "All I want is my freedom!"

He ignored the pain in Arthur's eyes and how his hands shook around his gun. Alfred ignored the flutter of guilt at causing his mentor – former mentor – this confliction.

Biting his lip, he continued. "I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother." The words felt sour in his mouth. He didn't want to sever all ties with Arthur, but he _had _to sever all ties to Britain, to the crown. "From now on, consider me independent!"

Arthur couldn't move. The American's words pierced his very heart. His hands shook around his bayonet. It hurt. It hurt so badly. He didn't want to let go of Alfred. He refused to let go!

With resolve in his eyes, he grit his teeth. His fingers regained their grip on the cold steel. The Englishman leapt forward swiftly.

Alfred reacted in surprise. With wide eyes, he lost his aim. He held his gun over his chest, not in the ready anymore.

Piercing the wooden side of the rifle with his bayonet blade, Arthur manipulated the force behind his advance and Alfred's rifle flew from his grip. As it splashed in the mud beside them, Arthur leveled his barrel at the American's face with determination in his eyes, panting.

"I won't allow it," he stated firmly, grip steady as he stared into Alfred's wide eyes. He recalled the way the American froze, then pulled his gun to his chest instead of shooting Arthur. "You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?"

"Ready! Aim!"

Arthur gave no reaction as the Revolutionaries behind Alfred readied their guns on him. He stared into his colony's eyes, feeling his resolve slip away.

Lowering his bayonet, he stared weakly at Alfred. "There's no way I can shoot you. I can't!" Tears filled his eyes, the steel gun slipping from his fingers. Falling to his knees in front of Alfred, a hand covered his face in an attempt to hide his weakness. "Why?" he sobbed. "Damnit, why? It's not fair!"

Alfred stared down at him, sadness in his eyes. "You know why." He watched as his former mentor broke in front of him; the way his shoulders shuddered with sobs. "What happened? I remember when you were great…"

Arthur didn't move. Not when Alfred left. Not until the remnants of the British troops found him a few hours later, staring blankly through the rain where Alfred disappeared.


End file.
